


Anyone Can Look Glamorous... Just Stand There And Look Stupid

by meaninglessblah, tomato_carnage



Series: You Can Have Anything You Want In Life If You Dress For It [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: (if you squint), 1950s, 50s Aesthetic Kink, All The Robins Are Not Straight™, Autistic Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne Undercover As Bruce Wayne, Crossdressing, Damian Has A Historical Dress Fixation, Hostage Situations, Humiliation, Knifeplay, M/M, Mild Blood, Multiple Bisexual Awakenings, POV Alternating, Threats of Violence, Tim Drake In A Dress, Undercover Missions, it works out in the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-06-29 13:52:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19831576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meaninglessblah/pseuds/meaninglessblah, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomato_carnage/pseuds/tomato_carnage
Summary: Tim goes undercover in a 1950s pin-up girl style dress to lure in a mark, and all the Robins come to the stark realisation that Tim is way more capable and also more attractive than they gave him credit for. It might have something to do with the victory curls...





	1. Chapter 1

“You can’t be serious,” Jason says, and Tim shrugs. 

“The guy’s got a kink,” he replies, hooking his heel onto the edge of the weight’s bench as he rolls the nylon stocking up the length of his slim calf. 

“So we’re sending _you_?” Jason emphasises, and Tim spares him a deprecating look between adjusting the stocking on his thigh. 

“I have done UC missions before. You know that, right?” 

“ _Successful_ UC missions?” Jason prompts with a broad smirk, and Tim glares as he shimmies into the other stocking. 

“You’re going to wear a garter belt with that, aren’t you?” Damian asks mulishly, without looking up from where he’s unwrapping his fists from his brief spar with Dick. 

Dick, who’s laid out on the mats, tosses his sweat-streaked locks in Tim’s direction and frowns. “What’s a garter belt?” 

Tim feels more than sees Damian freeze, stiffening with panic. He does see the brief blush light up the fifteen-year-old’s features though. “It’s like lingerie,” Tim answers, sparing him, and Dick’s features dawn with realisation. 

“Then why are you wearing lingerie?” 

“Number one: undercover mission, obviously. Number two and more practically: it keeps the stockings up.” 

“Why not just wear modern ones?” Jason asks curiously, hooking a stray finger into the stocking that’s gradually sliding down Tim’s right thigh. Tim bats his hand away, and Jason grins as he slouches back across the weights bench. “But also, is no one going to comment on the fact that Tim just admitted he’d wear lingerie for an undercover mission, no issue?” 

Tim offers him a middle finger. “If you think you’ll catch me dead in your stupid moustache-and-glasses combo, you’ve got another thing coming. Lingerie is subtle.” 

“Lingerie is sexy,” Dick purrs with an absent grin, shimmying over onto one side on the mat. “Are you going to seduce this guy?” 

“He’s a trafficker,” Tim answers without looking up, and shucks his shirt. “I figure we’ve got to get his attention somehow, right?” 

“This is a _business_ meeting,” Jason stresses, gaze flickering up to acknowledge Bruce as he steps into the training room. “Would’ve thought the jacket and trousers would negate the stockings.” 

“Not wearing a suit,” Tim answers. 

Damian glances over his shoulder at him, frowning. “What are you wearing then?” 

Tim turns and slips down onto the edge of the weights bench next to Jason’s sprawl, hooking his legs around the seat. He must look a bit ridiculous in just his boxer briefs and stockings, but honestly, the Robins have seen him in less. Medical emergencies and wardrobe malfunctions aren’t very considerate of pseudo-family ties. They all grew past the initial horror quickly. 

“His name’s Jovan Abramovic. He’s a Serbian trafficker who’s made some recent high-end investments in several Fortune 500 companies here in the States. Bruce thinks he’s looking to expand his market,” Tim explains with a nod towards his mentor. 

“He’s making some very noticeable waves amongst the wrong circles,” Bruce agrees in his gravelly timbre. “He’s in Gotham seeking investors in his up-and-coming trans-Atlantic intermodal company. He specialises in moving victims out of Northern Europe.” 

Dick’s brows rise. “I’m surprised he can get anyone out of Scandinavia. I thought their customs were pretty tight. Didn’t think he’d be able to get by them.” 

“Anyone will look the other way if you pay them enough,” Jason offers bleakly. 

“Point being,” Tim says, drawing the conversation back. “He’s seeking like-minded individuals to support his ‘trade’, and he knows Gotham has some deep pockets. Specifically,” Tim adds, and draws in a bracing breath. “Bruce Wayne.” 

Jason shoots upright, glare narrowing on Bruce. “You can’t be serious.” 

Dick’s already swung up to his knees. “Bruce, if you’re seen fraternizing with this creep and then we _take him down_ live on Gotham Nightly, it will damage your reputation irreparably.” 

“That’s why we’re not taking him down,” Bruce answers, and there’s a glorious moment of silence before everyone launches into bellowed dissent. Bruce weathers it all stoically, holding Tim’s gaze until they’ve finished getting it out of their system. Then he breathes in through his nose and says calmly, “I’m aware of those ramifications. I have considered _all_ of them. But Abramovic is a shrewd businessman. He’s been in this game a long time. He knows better than to tie any of his operations to his name. We need solid intel to take through his ranks, so we can cripple him at his pressure points. I don’t want to let a single man slip through our grasps,” Bruce growls, his tone hard and cold. “This is an international operation. I don’t want to risk missing any of the roots.” 

A solemn quiet lingers while they digest this, and Tim watches some of the tension ease out of their collective shoulders as his and Bruce’s plan rings true for them too. 

“Hence,” Tim offers tentatively into the calm, “why I’m going undercover. If this backfires, Wayne Enterprises can suggest that Bruce was up to his short-sighted playboy antics and didn’t read into Abramovic’s resume as well as he should have. If I go in as WE’s CEO, the fallout will be much more severe.” 

“So why the drag?” Jason asks, and Tim tears his gaze away from Bruce, down to his immaculate stockings. 

“Abramovic has… tastes.” 

“Tastes?” Jason prompts in a voice which tells Tim he knows _exactly_ what he means, and is going to make him say it anyway. 

“I believe the term,” Bruce supplies coolly, and Tim feels his cheeks heat, “is ‘twinks’.” 

Jason snorts. “Someone tell me they got that on audio.” 

Tim laces his fingers together and lifts his gaze to the ceiling. “Look, Bruce needs back up for recon, and I can’t go in as Timothy Drake. So we’re going with the hidden-in-plain-sight approach. Demonstrating that we’ve investigated his kinks will bring his guard up, briefly, but it’ll mark Bruce as a well-studied investor. So if we need to arrange a secondary meeting, we’ll have an in. And it’ll let me get close to Abramovic. It’s the best means to keep our options open.” 

“You think you can rock a dress, babybird?” Jason sneers with a challenging smirk. 

Tim shrugs, lowering his eyes to hold his gaze boldly. “I’d certainly look better than you in one.” 

“My boobs are bigger,” Jason rebuts. 

“My waist is slimmer,” Tim counters. 

“Look, girls, you’re both pretty,” Dick says with a curl of a grin, and bats his lashes. “But we both know _my ass_ is the one that puts food on the table.” 

For once, Tim is unfazed by the roundabout dick-measuring contest. He arches a smug brow, and leans forward onto his elbows. “Yeah, but Abramovic has a _type_ , and neither of you tick all the boxes.” 

Jason squints. “A type, huh? Do tell.” 

Tim lists them off on his fingers. “Slim, feminine, brunette-” 

“You are one goth brunette, Drake.” 

“-close enough though,” Tim parries, and continues, “He likes being able to overwhelm people, both intellectually and physically. He’s a businessman. He likes to get what he wants when he wants it, but he likes a taste of challenge too. And most importantly, Abramovic has a thing for 50’s pin-up girls.” 

Jason’s jaw goes slack, and even Dick seems at a loss for words. He recovers first though. “Wait, pin-up girls like, big ruffled skirts and cinch-waisted blouses? Heels and- and hair curls, and- garter belts and _stockings_?” 

Tim nods, a smile tugging at his lips. “Exactly that. I’m guessing he’s got some chip on his shoulder about the conservative American dream he was denied as a kid. The intel’s solid though. He likes his boys pretty, and preferably in dresses.” 

“Fuck me, babybird,” Jason mutters. “You’re honestly going to wear a _dress_ on a mission?” 

“A wiggle dress would be more apt,” Damian mutters under his breath, and everyone’s eyes flash over to him. He glances up at the sudden silence, paling, before the blood rushes back in an embarrassed flush, and he pins Tim with a frustrated glare. “I’m assuming you’re going for an A-line?” 

Tim nods dumbfoundedly, and Damian grunts in disapproval. 

“You know all those retro dresses aren’t really _accurate_ , right?” 

“Dami,” Dick says softly, and his jade gaze flashes down. “I didn’t know you studied dress history.” 

Damian’s cheeks are a bright crimson, and he hastily busies himself with packing away the neatly coiled wraps. “I had a fixation.” 

“That works perfectly, then,” Tim offers, but Damian doesn’t turn away from where he’s hiding his face in a cabinet nook. “And yeah, I was going to wear an A-line.” 

“It’s not accurate,” Damian repeats scathingly. 

“But it gives me more stash spots,” Tim points out, and Damian hums in agreement. Then he spins on his heel and crosses his arms over his chest, green eyes burning. 

“Then I’m dressing you. If we’re going to ensure even _marginal_ historical accuracy here, you’re going to need someone with the barest expertise, which I’m assuming none of you have?” At the blank looks that meet his, Damian sucks his teeth and unfurls from his stiff posture. “And you’re wearing a garter belt.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian realises Timothy Jackson Drake is a downright menace, even before he steps into the heels.

Damian doesn’t often make impulsive mistakes. It’s just not in his nature. He’s too focused, too thorough, to presume innocence to his own detriment. He almost _never_ errs in assuming something is as innocent as it seems. 

There’s nothing innocent about how Timothy Jackson Drake looks right now. 

He twists before the mirror, inspecting the sleek curves of his girdle-accented waist with a chirp of approval and surprise. “You weren’t wrong, this compliments my figure _so much more_ ,” Drake offers rosily, and Damian immensely regrets his choice to stick to historical accuracy. 

Because the gentle slope of Tim’s lean, muscled sides and hips is intimately _feminine_ , and Damian’s known he’s not straight for a while now, but it’s a bit rude to smack him with the reminder so thoroughly. 

And he’s _staring_. Which, arguably, he’s entitled to at the moment. If he’s going to dress Drake appropriately, then really an inspection is in order, but Damian doesn’t know if he’s going to be able to last through this self-inflicted ordeal. 

_It’s like training_ , he tells himself stiffly, straightening, and lifts his chin. _Just like any other. Just a new test, like the ones he’d trained for in the League. He’s Damian al Ghul-Wayne. He can handle a man in a fucking girdle._

“Pull up your stockings,” Damian orders curtly, and busies himself with fluffing the petticoat so he doesn’t have to look at the inviting curve of Drake’s thigh when he hooks his heel up onto the footrest. It’s smooth (he _shaved_ , goddamn him) and tightly packed with coils of muscle that seem all the more prominent against the darker trim of the stocking, and Damian hastily averts his gaze. 

He _does_ watch out of the corner of his eye as Drake clips the stockings though, running his palms down the sheer nylon to press out any blemishes, and there’s something inherently intimate about watching him dress that makes Damian’s cheeks heat. 

He clears his throat and hefts the petticoat, approaching Tim as he straightens. Then Damian hoists open the petticoat and instructs, “Step into it.” 

Drake places a hand on his shoulder to steady himself, and Damian has a fleeting moment where he realises this was the _wrong_ decision, as Drake’s sweetened aftershave reaches his nose and he can feel the heat of Tim’s body inches from his own. And Damian realises he’s _fifteen_ and he’s trained for sabotages like this, but not from his own fucking body. 

So he stands stoically and silently as Tim shimmies (motherfucking _shimmies_ ) into the petticoat’s huge ruffled skirts, and tries to dredge from his memory how that perp’s arm had looked like dislocated last night, reminiscing on the sound it had made, and the way his shoulder had looked all wrong in it’s socket, and- 

“Hey, Damian,” Tim prompts, and Damian realises he’s been still for too long. He jerks his hands away from Tim’s hips like he’s been burned, face unbelievably hot. 

He steers himself back to his work table, ignoring Tim’s knowing smirk, and announces loudly, “The dress now. Then we can focus on the properly difficult aspects.” 

“Thanks for doing this for me, Dami,” Tim says with a smile that’s as vicious as it is grateful, and Damian swiftly realises that there’s absolutely _nothing_ unintentional about Timothy Jackson Drake. The man is a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and Damian would do well to remember that next time he makes a spontaneous offer that puts him in such a compromised position. 

And speaking of young men in compromised positions-

“It’s fine,” he answers, more shrilly than he would like, and presents the navy blue number for Tim’s inspection. He drops onto the nearest plush footstool without a moment’s hesitation, arranging his skirts around him, and cocks his head at Damian’s stunned stare. 

Then he lifts his arms above his head and asks sheepishly, “Help me into it?” 

Damian swears in his head in every language he knows, five of which he is fluent in, and clutches the dress close to him, a protective barrier as he steps up to hook the skirts over Tim’s dark head of hair. At which point he becomes _scathingly_ aware that Tim’s head is almost exactly at his crotch level, and they’re rapidly approaching the top of the dress. 

Damian’s never believed in astral projection before this moment, but he’s beginning to envy anyone who can replicate the experience, because there’s not a lot he wouldn’t give to be able to depart from his body right now. 

He watches as Tim emerges from the skirts a little flushed, shaking his hair in drooping swathes before he grins up at Damian and shifts to offers him his back. It’s no small miracle that Damian manages to take the two halves of the halter straps on autopilot and bind them in a tasteful bow. 

Tim stands before he has a chance to step away, turning to inspect himself in the mirror, and Damian melts at the sight of him. His pale skin stands out starkly against the navy material, drawing attention to his cinched waist and narrow hips. His bared back is a nude masterpiece, and Damian can see his shoulder blades shifting beneath the muscle there as he preens in front of his reflection. His legs are long and slim, and Damian has the sudden realisation that they’re going to be so much worse once he gets him into the T-straps. 

“Sit down,” he barks before he can allow himself to be distracted any longer, and Tim folds pliantly into the seat he shoves into the back of his knees. 

Tim layers his arms over the armrests, surveying Damian as he sets up his stool and drags his palette table closer. “What’s this?” 

“Make up,” Damian answers, and reaches deftly up to bind the short apron at the back of Tim’s neck, catching another whiff of that deceptive aftershave. It’s pinewood and cherries, light and demure to hide its seductiveness. Damian quickly smooths the apron over his chest, sitting back to grab his foundation palette. 

“I didn’t know you knew how to apply make up,” Tim says mildly, and Damian glares. 

“It’s useful,” he answers defensively, and knocks Tim’s chin up with his knuckle, better positioning him under the light. “Bruises, lacerations. Hold still; this won’t take too long.” 

By the time he’s finished, Tim almost looks like a new person. Damian’s kept it on the natural, light side, letting Tim’s good breeding shine through in his high cheekbones and arched brows. His jawline is surprisingly apt for the beaus of the 50s, and Damian had only needed to accent his features to achieve the delicate but bold look he was aiming for. 

Tim bats his lashes, his smile curling up the corners of his winged eyeliner. Damian tries not to scowl, and takes his chin firmly to keep him in place. 

“Just lipstick left,” he announces, and Tim grins crookedly. 

“Red, I hope.” 

“Yes, red, _Red Robin_ ,” Damian says with broad exasperation, and pops the lid, raising the crimson shade to Tim’s pursed lips. They’re soft and pliant beneath his strokes, and Damian loses himself in the sensation of painting Tim’s lips. When he sits back, Tim smacks them, and Damian’s gaze lingers a little longer than is strictly professional. “Hair,” he croaks then, and Tim looks curious. 

“What style are we going with?” he asks, trailing an absent hand through his bangs. 

Damian grips a handful of his hair, inspecting the freshly washed and dried locks. “Victory curls,” he replies with an analytical frown. 

Tim’s reflection looks dubious. “You honestly think you’re going to get victory curls out of _these_?” 

“Watch me,” Damian growls. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Damian's first up to bat. But really, he volunteered for this - what did he expect?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick assures himself he's not jealous. He's just being a protective older brother.

“If you wanted a disfigured nose,” Jason drawls, leaning back against the sleek black Bentley, “I could have just punched you in your stupid face. Would have been a lot less effort.” 

Dick tosses him a reproachful look and pinches the silicon prosthetic between the pads of his thumbs. “If you’re going to talk smack about my nose, then we _have_ to talk about your chin.” 

Jason cradles his jawline in the palm of his hand, stroking the short stubble there. “What about it?” 

“That is a goatee.” 

Jason crooks a grin. “Yeah, but it goes with the neck tattoo, huh?” 

“You look like a thug.” 

“That’s the point, Dickie. The broken nose might give you some good Crime Alley diction to go with that fake scar.” 

“Diction?” Dick repeats with a scrunched expression. He can feel the prosthetic glue pulling at the bridge of his actual nose. “What’s wrong with my accent?” 

“You sound like you were born with a silver spoon lodge up your ass,” Jason replies, chewing on the end of a cigarette. He flicks the lighter open, and then closed while he smiles. “That or you sound like a New Jersey cop. Neither of which is ideal in this situation.” 

“Ne me rakker Romanes,” Dick grumbles under his breath, and Jason snorts. 

“Russian’s more intimidating,” he offers while Dick pouts and smooths back his hair. 

A brief curiosity lights him up. “Do you even speak Russian?” 

Jason’s shoulders hunch under his inquisitive tone, and he looks distinctly defensive. “Ya uchus govorit,” he mutters. 

“Govorit,” Dick corrects, and Jason repeats it under his breath, eyes fixed on his shoes. 

Bruce shoulders through the double doors, and Dick straightens habitually from his lean against the drivers side door. Even Jason unfurls his arms from his chest, standing to lax attention. The older man’s eyes sweep over them, before a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips and slips away. 

“Names?” he asks as he approaches, buckling his cufflinks. He smells vaguely of cologne, and Dick can tell from the cashmere weave that that’s one of his more elegant, expensive suits. 

“Scarry McNosewonk and Inks Goatee,” Jason quips, glancing over at Dick. 

“You look very, uh, _rough_ ,” Bruce offers, and there’s a note of approval there. Dick feels his shoulders uncoil. 

He offers his most crooked grin. “Best security money can buy.” 

“And we cost a fucking fortune,” Jason agrees, and pops open the back passenger door, gesturing Bruce inside with a sweeping arm. “After you, sir.” 

“Where’s Tim?” Dick asks as Bruce ducks into the leather interior. 

“Not far behind,” Bruce answers, and Dick hears the sound of wooden shoes against the marble threshold. He straightens with a smile, turning to greet him. “It’s about ti-” 

The word dies in his throat with a croak when he lays eyes on Tim, who’s descending the steps in a skirt that’s at least twice as wide as he is. There’s a coy smile painted onto those red lips, his catwing eyeliner darkening the droop of his lids as he reaches the gravel and pauses before the pair of them. 

“Is there a problem?” he asks in a bright, lilting chirp that’s at least half an octave above his usual register. 

“I- no,” Dick recovers with, snapping his jaw shut. He feels Jason do the same beside him, clearing his throat loudly as he steps aside to let Tim into the back of the vehicle. Tim doesn’t budge. 

He tilts his head, that smile growing without any teeth appearing to mar that lethal blood-red gloss. Dick’s gaze lifts to the coils of dark hair atop his crown, and he wonders dazedly how many cans of hairspray Damian sacrificed to achieve those perfect curls. 

Then he realises he’s staring and snaps his gaze down, overshoots it and lands on the curve of slim leg that’s peeking from beneath the ruffles of that skirt. Tim’s shoes are the same colour as his lips, a bright, eye-catching red that strap delicately around his ankles and elevate him an extra inch. Dick gulps and corrects course back up somewhere around Tim’s amused gaze. 

“Are you- are you sure you’re up for this?” Dick asks with the barest hesitation. Tim looks completely unlike himself, and whilst Dick’s _aware_ that Tim has theoretically conducted missions while undercover, he’s not sure his little brother is entirely equipped to handle being the chew toy between two businessmen in the middle of a pissing contest. If everything goes to hell, Tim’s on the front line. 

Tim straightens with a pealing laugh that makes Dick’s stomach tighten with heat. “Oh, Daddy-O,” he says with a mouthful of sharp teeth. “Don’t flip your wig. I’m all jets.” 

“I don’t know what any of that crap means,” Jason supplies while Dick’s still recovering. Tim cocks a hip and chews on the arm of a pair of glasses Dick hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding. 

“I’ve got this,” he translates, his tone dropping back Tim’s slightly huskier timbre. “Trust me. This is like every other negotiation I’ve headed as WE’s CEO. Smile here, bat your lashes there - it’s all just the language. Do you seriously think Wayne Enterprises’ doors would still be open if I didn’t know how to handle a snake like Abramovic?” 

“I just mean,” Dick stresses, and Tim’s gaze slides up under those long lashes to find him again. He tries not to be intimidated. “Abramovic is probably going to have his hands all over you.” 

“I’d hope so,” Tim quips, and Dick scowls at that mental image, a coil of jealousy flaring through him and dissipating before he can spare it a stray thought. _Protectiveness,_ he assures himself, _not jealousy_. “If his hands are on me, they’re not reaching for his gun. More importantly, if he’s focused on my lips, he’s less focused on his. He might slip us the intel we’re after.” 

“I’m just not sure-” Dick begins, and Tim cuts him off sharply. 

“Dick, I’ve got this. If you don’t think you can handle being Bruce’s bodyguard for a few hours-” 

Dick glares defensively, affronted. “ _I’ve_ done this a million times before. I’m just trying to make sure you know what you’re getting into, that you’re actually prepared for this.” 

Tim snorts and brushes past him. Dick had a sharp retort on his tongue, but it’s swamped by the view of Tim’s exposed, pale back framed by that navy dress, and the delicate curve of his narrow shoulders beneath the neat bow at the back of his neck. Tim turns back when he gets to the car. 

“Dick, honestly,” he says solemnly, that mirth still lingering in his gaze. It’s softened now, more conspiratorial than bold. _Kittenish_ , Dick thinks. “I promise you, I’m prepped for this. I’ve done my homework; I know what we’re walking into. And I can handle Abramovic. Can you trust me to do that, on my own?” 

Dick feels guilt dampen that flare of heat, brows pinching in remorse. “Yeah,” he says, and repeats it again, more firmly, “Yes, Tim, absolutely. I didn’t mean to make you think I doubted you. I just wanted to be sure that _you_ know what you’re doing here. But yes, I’m with you, the whole way. I trust you to handle this.” 

“Now you’re cookin’ with gas,” he purrs, and Dick purses his lips tersely. 

“You really studied for this, didn’t you?” he asks as Tim grins, slipping on a pair of oversized shades. 

He turns back with one hip in the doorway, the corner of his lips curling up. Dick can’t read his eyes through those dark, bulky glasses. “Wait ‘til you see my dance moves,” he says, and slides inside. 

Jason slams the door shut before Dick can reply, exhaling deeper than Dick feels his chest could bear right now. “What the hell. That shit should be illegal,” he mutters as he passes Dick to take the passenger seat. 

“There’s a reason it’s a kink,” Dick sighs as he leans on the roof. Jason reaches the other side and glares at him over the polish. 

“I didn’t even know it _was_ a kink,” Jason growls. “But apparently Abramovic isn’t the only one who’s got it, Dickiebird.” 

Dick startles, a flush heating his cheeks. “What? I don’t- I don’t have a 50s kink!” 

Jason looks coolly unimpressed. “Oh yeah? What colour were his shoes?” 

_Red_ , his mind supplies reverently, _with golden buckles_. Dick scowls. “What does that matter?” 

“No guy actually looks at a girl’s shoes unless they’re _really_ interested in what they’re wearing,” Jason points out sagaciously, and Dick swallows hard. 

“Tim’s not a girl,” he counters, and half of Jason’s incisors show in his crooked grin. 

“No, but he sure makes a good-looking one, huh?” 

Then he ducks into the car before Dick can properly defend himself, and Dick’s forced to weather the whole drive in cloying, uncomfortable silence. Well, almost-silence. Tim spends the whole drive discussing strategy with Bruce, and Dick tunes them out. He’s just playing a grunt; the less he knows, the more realistic it seems. He’s just back up if this all goes pear-shaped. He’s better at thinking on his feet anyway. 

“I’m going to have to be all over you to begin with,” Tim says somewhat apologetically, and Bruce raises a silencing hand. 

“Tim, if it helps your cover, do whatever you have to do. I’ll adapt in the moment. Do you need a codeword, in case things get too deep?” 

“No,” Tim says firmly, and smooths down his skirts with a private smile. “I’m packing heat anyway. You’d be amazed what you can sew into the lining of these things. Jason, you should consider another costume redesign.” 

“Shut up, replacement,” Jason growls from the passenger seat, and Dick sees Tim chuckle in the rearview mirror. That sight shouldn’t make his stomach coil into tight knots, but it does, and Dick studiously turns his gaze back to the road. 

“We’ll defer to your lead,” Bruce says to Tim as Dick glides up against the curb. Jason’s already alighting to open Bruce’s door, and Dick watches the suited man plaster on his most brilliant billionaire playboy smile as he steps out. Tim catches Dick's eye in the mirror, tugging down the glasses to wink before he removes them completely and shimmies out of the Bentley. 

Dick grips the steering wheel and draws in a steadying breath as he lets his expression bleed to neutrality. Then he steps out onto the sidewalk to join them. 

They pass through the gold-and-white lobby, and Dick’s gaze sweeps the concierge and the doorman as they pass, his lips curled in a disapproving frown beneath his dark shades. Jason’s at his left shoulder, head swivelling to drink in the extravagant restaurant-cafe just inside the doors that are pulled open for their arrival. 

Of course Abramovic wouldn’t just be satisfied with a light chat over a meal, Dick thinks with amusement. He’s used to the finer things in life. 

Against his will, Dick finds his gaze sliding to land on Tim’s swaying hips, the dip of his spine where it meets the edge of the low-cut dress, and then the elevator chime is snapping him back to reality. 

Jason arches a single brow as they step inside, layering themselves over the entrance like a second set of doors. With both their bulk, they take up most of the front half of the elevator. Dick watches Tim drape himself over the polished wooden railing, shoulders hunching in the glass reflection as he offers them a coy smile. Those eyelids droop again, and Dick watches his posture slide into the role of the demure but bold escort he’s playing. It’s a startling thing to see in person, but there’s not a hint of Tim Drake left by the time the elevator rings up to the penthouse floor. 

Abramovic is waiting when they doors open, a hand resting casually in the pocket of his straight-legged grey slacks. He’s not wearing a suit jacket, but he is wearing a pressed two-pocket waistcoat over a starched shirt. A drab but tasteful foulard necktie is lashed around his throat, and he stands like he’s just about to reach for his trilby and suggest they take a stroll through the park. 

He’s a hard man to hate, Dick thinks. He looks… surprisingly innocuous. There’s a bit of age around his eyes, a touch of conservativeness to the style of his beard and the gelled comb of his hair. But altogether he looks like a slightly out-of-time businessman. Tim hadn’t been wrong about the 50s obsession. 

He and Jason step out in unison and take up post on either side of the doorway, framing the way for Bruce to bear forward and offer his hand to Abramovic. 

"So good of you to see me on such short notice," Abramovic offers warmly, and Bruce beams. 

"Thank _you_ for hosting us. It's a lovely place you have here." 

"Everything's temporary," Abramovic waves off, his gaze falling to land on Tim as the elevator doors slide shut behind him with a parting chime. 

Dick can read intrigue in that gaze, and something else with a bit more heat. It snaps up behind a wall of ice as his eyes returns to Bruce, some of that polite smile dimming, sharpening to a warning edge. 

"You brought a guest," he says. 

Bruce spares Tim a glance, returning that broad smile. "A guest," he replies with a shrug, "a gift. I figured you wouldn't mind the intrusion." 

"Intrusion?" Abramovic repeats, and bares teeth until the corner of his eyes have crinkled under the force of it. "Of course not. Come inside. We have hors d'oeuvres." 

"I hope you don't think this was too forward," Bruce offers with a contrite frown as he follows Abramovic deeper into the penthouse. Tim plasters himself beneath Bruce's inviting arm, so Dick and Jason fall into step behind them. 

"Is he a friend of yours?" Abramovic asks with a bit too much pointed curiosity. He's cagey, exactly as Tim had predicted. 

"I did some research," Bruce admits with polite sheepishness. "I'd hoped you wouldn't mind. My friend here has a very… personal touch. He was very keen to meet you." 

"In his Sunday best," Abramovic purrs with a curl of displeased amusement. Dick can hear the suspicion in that tone, but it's ebbing. 

Bruce shrugs. "We like what we like, Mister Abramovic. Far from someone like me to deny myself the simple pleasures in life." 

"This pleasure hardly strikes me as _simple_ , Mister Wayne," Abramovic returns as they pass into a large meeting room. There's two leather lounges sprawled parallel to each other, in the shadow of an antique mahogany bar. The whole space has a luxurious and contained vibe to it. It could almost be called cosy, if not for the three sentries standing at parade rest in its depths. 

Dick's gaze sweeps the men as they enter, noting the slight bulges of gun holsters beneath the standard issue suit jackets. Not to be unexpected, but worth noting. And now they're evenly matched, in number if not ability. Dick doesn't doubt they each could handle a respective thug if it comes to that; any one of them could pick off the three - maybe even Abramovic if the man proves he's more bite than bark. 

Abramovic gestures to a lounge, letting Bruce take his seat before he folds into his own. 

Bruce beams conspiratorially. "I hope you appreciate the effort I've gone to," Bruce answers, with just enough edge to remind civil minds that refusing a gift is a poor show of custom. 

"Of course," Abramovic concedes, his gaze following Tim as he crosses the carpet to Bruce's side. 

Tim settles himself with one ankle hooked across Bruce’s shin, the ruby toes of his shoe pointed tastefully at the timber. The palm of his hand slides across Bruce's chest, the fingers delving just beneath the lapel of his jacket, and Tim rests his hand there, smiling obliviously as he meets Abramovic's gaze. 

"He surely is a masterpiece," Abramovic admits reluctantly, and Dick thinks Jason might scoff under his breath as the pair of them flank the lounge. Abramovic doesn't seem to notice. 

Tim's eyes light up, his gaze snapping up to Bruce. "I can twirl for him, if you'd like? Show off all that effort you put into this beautiful get up." 

He directs the question solely at Bruce, but Dick watches Abramovic's eyes flair with want. Bruce weaves a hand around Tim's tiny waist with a chuckle, pushing him up to his feet. "Go on, then." 

Tim unfolds with lithe grace, the ring of his heels softened on the carpet as he pushes to one set of toes and twirls slowly, skirts flaring. Abramovic's gaze sweeps every inch of him as he turns, and Dick feels another spark of jealousy - _protectiveness,_ protectiveness - sear up his throat at the sight. 

Then Tim's shoe catches in an errant hitch of the carpet that Dick's sure hadn't been there before, and he yelps softly as he tumbles off balance. Bruce rises to steady him, the motion all but a handful of seconds too late, and by the time he has a hand outstretched, Abramovic has already stood to catch Tim around the elbows. 

Tim blushes and smiles as Abramovic sets him back on his feet, and pauses to cast a glance back at Bruce. It's a permissive look, to anyone paying attention, and a question of permission to any spectator. 

Bruce chuckles heartily and slips back into his seat, undoing his jacket button as he sprawls out. "Go on, doll. I don't mind." 

Abramovic sits down after a moment's pause, and Tim follows him effortlessly, curling his thighs across Abramovic's slacks. His skirts gather around them as he twists at the waist to hook arms loosely around Abramovic's neck, smiling sweetly. He leans into the man, and Dick watches Abramovic's palm come up to steady Tim in the small of his back. The other comes to wrap around one of Tim's pressed-together knees as Tim settles there with a lackadaisical ease. 

"Hey, Big Daddy," Tim purrs into the breath of air between them, layering his forearms over Abramovic's broad shoulders. "Are we gonna do the backseat bingo?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surejan.jpg  
> At least Dick has a better grasp on hiding his attraction than Damian. Must be years of practice. 
> 
> The 50s have the absolute corniest slang. I love it. 
> 
> Now we're in the thick of it. One more chapter to go!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's been out of the loop for a while, but he thinks missing Tim's transition into that body is an oversight even for him.

Tim has had Abramovic wrapped around his finger since he walked in. Abramovic has had his fingers wrapped around Tim for the last ten minutes, and Jason’s starting to see red. 

He’s got one hand splayed across Tim’s back, holding him close enough that Abramovic can almost whisper directly into his ear. Tim’s perched atop his lap, heel layered up in the crook of Abramovic’s knee for balance. The trafficker’s other hand is draped lazily but possessively over Tim’s hip, his thumb stroking the curve of Tim’s pelvis where it slides into the skirts. 

As Jason watches, Abramovic cants his fingers to grab a handful of Tim’s skirt, delicately sliding it up his thigh. Tim doesn’t move, doesn’t give any indication that anything’s awry, so none of them move. Abramovic hasn’t stopped talking the whole time, his tone even and melodic as he and Bruce trade small talk like they’re sitting across a cafe table from one another and there’s not a very precariously balanced man in Abramovic’s lap. 

Jason’s gaze flickers from Abramovic’s polite laugh to the bared skin at the top of Tim’s thigh, peeking between the top of the stocking and the frill of that skirt. He clenches his fists as Tim shifts slightly, curling deeper into Abramovic’s side, and Jason has a blinding moment of appreciation for Tim’s poker face. 

If anyone laid hands on him like that, they’d walk out without any bones left in them. 

It’s only through sheer determination and discipline that Jason keeps a straight face when that hand slides around to squeeze Tim’s ass, and Tim winces, ever-so-slightly. But between Robins, that flinch is broadcasting like a ten foot neon Vegas sign. Jason feels Dick tense beside him, and silently agrees. 

“Say, kitten,” Abramovic says during a lull in conversation, his dark eyes finding Tim’s. The younger man offers him a demure smile. “How d’you like music?” 

“Hmm, music?” Tim purrs gently, and lays his head on Abramovic’s shoulder. “I’d love some music, Big Daddy. What’ve you got?” 

Abramovic pats Tim’s knee, and Tim slides gracefully off his lap onto the cushions as the man rises to his feet. He brushes down his front before approaching the stereo set against the adjacent wall, and Tim meets Bruce’s gaze across the distance. Jason doesn’t catch whatever is communicated between those stares before Tim twists and drapes himself across the lounge, perfect red heels crossed at the ankles across the armrest. 

The quiet plucking of a somber guitar radiates from the speakers, before a velvety male voice warbles into the silence, and Abramovic settles back on his heels to drink in his choice of music. Jason can tell it’s some fifties ballad, just by the quality and Abramovic’s transparent obsession. 

He returns to the lounge after a moment, tucking himself back under Tim’s shoulders as Tim tilts his head over Abramovic’s knee. Two crooked fingers stroke themselves down Tim’s cheek, the motion soft and considerate. “Do you know the Orioles, doll?” 

Tim nods, conjuring a coy smile. “‘It’s Too Soon To Know’,” he supplies, and Abramovic beams like Tim’s passed some great test. Jason questions just how much research Tim has done for this mission. 

"You're a cultured little thing, aren't you, cherry?" Abramovic murmurs, and Tim blushes humbly, lowering his lashes as his cheeks paint red beneath the foundation. 

"I can appreciate good taste," Tim answers with, holding Abramovic's gaze pointedly, and all Jason can think is, _good answer._

From that moment on, Abramovic is exceedingly less and less subtle about his intentions with Tim. He treats Tim like a doll, positioning him just so, draping him across his lap and over his shoulder and anywhere he damn well pleases while he and Bruce trade stock figures and market share predictions. It's almost a challenge, to see if Bruce will snap under the pressure, but he maintains a blissfully pleased demeanor the whole while, and Tim makes no move to suggest he's anywhere other than exactly where he needs to be. 

After another few minutes of Bruce and Abramovic talking shop, Tim’s hand dances up the curve of Abramovic’s ribs, palm sliding across to rest up against Abramovic’s neck. Then Tim’s lips are brushing against Abramovic’s jugular, just beneath the severe cut of his neatly trimmed beard, and Jason’s jaw nearly drops at the sheer _gall_. 

Abramovic’s shoulder hitches, as if in sharp surprise, and then the hand that’s been resting against Tim’s hip slides across his lower back to trace the cradle of his other hip, sliding down beneath his skirt to wrap around his inner thigh. Tim jolts, shock fleeting across his features, and Jason tenses. Abramovic meets his gaze, offers him a burning smile, and after the barest pause, Tim’s smiling back, red lips parting. Abramovic wraps his other hand around Tim’s ass, pulling him over his legs and deeper into his lap, until Tim is practically straddling the man. 

Jason can’t see Tim’s expression with his back turned as it is, but he can read the forced-relaxed posture Tim’s trying his damnedest to maintain. Jason’s mind flickers back to that moment in the car, when Bruce had asked if he wanted a safeword, and Tim had answered with such confidence. Some of his tension fades with the memory of how sure Tim had been, of how perfectly he’s played the role up to now, and Jason feel a wash of guilt for doubting Tim’s prowess. 

It’s not like he thought Tim wasn’t _capable_ of undercover work. He just had no measure of _how_ capable he is. Tim hasn’t set a single step wrong the whole time they’ve been here, and Abramovic is opening up like a book beneath Tim’s careful ministrations. Tim’s playing him like a goddamn fiddle, and Jason rocks back on his heels at the realisation that Tim probably could have handled this whole mission without the need for any of them to be here. He’d probably have strolled out with a smile and a wink and a lawsuit's worth of invaluable dirt on the trafficker. Really, he and Dick are just here for decoration. 

Even Bruce seems like overkill. Tim’s not even indecent, and Abramovic is already purring beneath him. 

There’s something lethal about Tim, Jason’s gradually coming to realise, something ruthless if you look at it under the right light. The globes overhead don’t quite give it the right refraction, but Jason can still see hints of that relentlessness beneath that demure posture. The dip of his spine beneath Abramovic’s hand, the hitch of his knees against Abramovic’s hips. Jason can’t help but wonder when exactly Tim properly came into those legs, and that muscle, and that _ass_. Because Jason certainly hadn’t been paying attention, and that seems like a laid snare all on its own. 

Tim casts a beaming smile over his shoulder in Bruce’s direction, and Jason watches Abramovic’s crooked finger trace his jawline, lidded eyes fixed on his lips. “Bruce,” he sings, flashing teeth, “I think some drinks are in order. Perhaps we should move to the bar-?” 

Bruce is already pushing to his feet, gesturing at Tim to stay sitting. “Don’t trouble yourselves,” he answers with a million dollar smile, approaching the mahogany counter. “I can bring them to you. What do you fancy?” 

“There was one I was reading about the other day,” Tim says after a hesitant pause, eyes rolling up to the ceiling as if in thought, before he starts slightly and says, “Oh, yes, that was it. _The Batman_. Spiced rum, Kahlua, vanilla vodka and rootbeer.” 

Bruce comes around the bar, plucking a bottle from the shelf as his gaze falls to the tumbler he’s setting up on the counter. “Not a problem,” he chirps. 

Something flashes through Tim’s gaze, but it’s too fast for Jason to catch, and then Abramovic is stroking a hand up Tim’s spine. Jason’s focused gaze follows the way Abramovic’s fingers snag in the material of that dress, before they reach the bared expanse between his shoulder blades and gently fold Tim in closer to his bulk. Tim’s hands fist in the material of his collar, gaze snapping down to the hand still resting, unmoving as far as Jason can see, in the crook of his thigh, hidden by his swathes of skirts. 

Then that gaze rises again, shimmering with bright mirth, and Bruce looks up over the bar to ask Abramovic his poison. 

“I rarely drink while entertaining guests,” he protests with amusement, and Jason can’t help but liken his rich tone to melted butter beneath Tim’s warmth. He’s a little stunned at how damn malleable Abramovic is proving to be, but it can only be a testament to Tim’s expertise in manipulation. And a little luck and keen skill has never gone unappreciated on a mission before. 

“I insist,” Bruce chides, setting Tim’s drink up on the board for safekeeping. 

Abramovic chuckles, gaze breaking off Tim to smile at Bruce. “If I must, a Gin and Sin.” 

“A classic!” Bruce replies, reaching for the grenadine. 

Tim sinks a little deeper into Abramovic’s lap under that large, guiding hand, and a soft peal of laughter rises from his lips. “How about some more music, Big Daddy?” 

“Sure thing, kitten. Have one of your goons cast an eyeball over there.” 

Tim leans back a little to snag Jason and Dick’s gazes, and Jason drags his eyes up from Tim’s arched spine to meet his stare. “Hey, Dreamboat,” he instructs, and Jason short-circuits for a brief moment once he realises Tim’s referring to _him_. That purr sinks into his skin, galvanising him. “Can you change the sounds?” 

Jason opens his mouth, closes it, and trudges over to the stereo. Tim turns back to Abramovic, laughing lightly as he says, “Peter’s a real hood. Hardly ever catch him without his jacket. You’d love his style; it’s very unique.” 

“I’m sure,” Abramovic replies, but he doesn’t sound like he’s paying the least bit of attention. If Tim was sitting in his lap, Jason doubts he’d care much for the conversation either. 

The stereo has a fairly modern set-up, with a digital display open on Abramovic’s library. Jason pauses when he reaches it, glancing back to meet Tim’s gaze. “What’re you after?” 

“Got any of the Robins?” Tim asks, and Jason feels a flash of concern light him up. There’s a pointedness to Tim’s tone, a sharpness to his gaze that feels challenging. That word, spoken so blatantly, hikes Jason’s pulse up a notch. 

What the hell does Tim think he’s doing, playing with words like that? Is he so confident that he’s gotten complacent in waving their breed in front of Abramovic’s nose? 

Then Jason sees Tim's palms sliding across the flats of Abramovic's shoulders, his hips dipping down into his lap, guided by that large hand on his bare back. His expression is neatly arranged into heated want, red lips just slightly parted. Jason flushes, kicks himself, and considers that maybe he's just reading too far into things again. Maybe his jealousy is just clouding his judgement. Maybe he's making something out of nothing, and this is just Tim's idea of a joke. 

Jason’s still frowning by the time he finishes running through the whole, small library. “Can’t see any records by ‘em.” 

“Try the Nic Nacs,” Abramovic calls over, and Jason alights on an album from dead-on 1950. 

He lets a smirk curl his lips as he asks, “How about ‘I Found Me A Sugar Daddy’?” 

Abramovic chuckles softly. “Perfect.” 

A jaunty piano riff kicks up through the speakers, overborn by a woman’s blues warble. Jason casts the pair of them a small grin and returns to his post beside Dick. Bruce comes back with their cocktails, setting them on a narrow end table. He regains his seat, sipping his Harvey Wallbanger as he surveys the pair of them. 

“I have to say, Wayne,” Abramovic purrs, and Tim’s hips flex very minutely as he shifts his knees wider, “I’m finding your company awfully indulgent. I feel I’m neglecting my duties as a host.” 

Bruce waves off the platitudes with a loose wrist. “It’s my pleasure, honestly. My friend here was just so keen to meet you. I suppose his indulgences happened to align with yours.” 

Abramovic hums, those dark eyes rising to hold Tim’s gaze where Jason can’t read them. “You could certainly say that.” 

The music bleats softly in the silence as Abramovic’s hand falls none-too-subtly to the rise of Tim’s ass, squeezing in full view of the assembled men. Jason can see a muscle twitch in Bruce’s neck at the sight, but the man’s been at this bit longer than any of them, so he just shuffles to the edge of the lounge with a private chuckle, glancing down at his extortionately priced watch. Jason’s sure he doesn’t imagine the faint bite to Bruce’s words when he replies, “We will have to be going soon, though, I’m afraid. I had to shuffle another meeting to make your company possible, so my friend and I are running a little short on time.” 

Abramovic’s brows pinch in a facade of disappointment, that gaze fixated on Tim, drinking every microexpression in. He reaches blindly over to snag his tumbler, taking a slow and steady sip that leaves his voice husky when he speaks. 

“Ain’t that a bite,” Abramovic murmurs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so maybe I lied. I like this fic WAY too much, so I'm indulging another chapter.  
> Last one this time, for real, I promise, and it's going to heat up significantly from here.  
> So, from the top, one last time - with Tim's POV. 
> 
> If you haven't listened to the Nic Nacs (aka The Robins) and Mickey Champion sing, 'I Found Me A Sugar Daddy', you should.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim bit off more than he could chew.  
>  **(Please check the updated tags before reading onwards, because you're gonna have whiplash otherwise)**

Tim’s had a knife hitched against his femoral artery for the better half of an hour. He can feel it digging into his thigh, snagged just under the clip of the nylon stocking, an ever present threat. 

The ice in his cocktail has long since dissolved, and Tim’s blood pressure has only risen in the time since Bruce subtly suggested they should leave. His own less-than-subtle (but apparently too subtle) suggestions had gone unmarked by both Bruce _and_ Jason, so he’d nearly leapt on Bruce’s call to leave with both hands. 

Only that cold warning blade had kept his mouth shut, and Tim’s practically bursting with simmering panic now. Bruce has been revisiting that suggestion with increasingly less civility, and Abramovic has been increasingly, obnoxiously oblivious to the hints. Tim knows why. Tim knows exactly why. 

Because Tim knows Abramovic’s been onto him since he draped himself across the man’s lap. 

He’s not sure whether Abramovic is just aware that he’s Timothy Drake, or if his pervasive knowing extends to Red Robin too. He hadn’t flinched at Tim’s _subtle_ references to his vigilante family - other than to chuckle with amusement at Tim’s obvious attempts to call for help that had flown spectacularly beneath all their radars - so Tim doesn’t _think_ he’s penetrated that many layers down yet. 

So Tim stays seated in Abramovic’s lap, with that cold knife against his inner thigh and the heat of Abramovic pouring through him, gaze locked on his Adam’s apple as he tries desperately to _think_. He’s certain he can extract himself from the situation, salvage it somehow, if he just has time and patience on his side. This isn't the first time he's been threatened, and he's sure it won't be the last. Tim's just got to come up with a strategy, fast. 

The option is stolen from him when Bruce pushes to his feet, his tone blunt beneath its facade of politeness, and orders, "I think it's best we leave now." 

"Sit down, Wayne," Abramovic barks coldly in response, and the room freezes around those words, the atmosphere shifting. Tim let's his eyes flutter closed, trapping the instinct to launch himself out of Abramovic's lap deep inside, and clenches his hands in the man's collar. When he's certain he's not going to do anything so stupid, Tim opens them again to find Abramovic watching him. 

His lips are curled in a coy smile, so much sharper now that the game's apparently up. The hand he's got wrapped around the knife shifts, drawing Tim's breath, but his other hand just slides down Tim's spine to the small of his back. 

"Shall we show them, kitten?" he murmurs, dark eyes sparkling with mirth, and Tim swallows. It doesn't sound like a question, not really, so Tim lets himself be manhandled around until he's leaning back against Abramovic's chest, legs hitched open around the larger man's knees. 

The shame rushes up on him then, darkening his cheeks and tightening the vice of his throat, in part because it feels humiliating to be put on display like this. And partly because he had been so sure, so adamant that he had Abramovic pinned. That this was going to be a simple undercover sting and he'd walk out with his family's admiration. And now Tim's pinned in the lap of a renowned human trafficker, with a knife in the crook of his thigh. 

Abramovic takes a handful of the skirts, settling them further up on Tim's hips to expose the sleek, sharp silver of the blade. Not that Bruce, or Dick, or Jason needed more than the restrained desperation in Tim's gaze to tell them that this shit's gone entirely sideways. 

"Gotta say, Wayne," Abramovic purrs with a low chuckle, "I have to admire your courage. Sending this _delicate_ little thing after me? That took balls. And the effort has certainly not gone unappreciated, let me tell you." 

His other hand slides up over Tim's other hip as he speaks, fingers delving down to hook a pinky under the strap of Tim's exposed garter. The snap of elastic cuts through the silence of the room, biting into the sensitive skin of Tim's inner thigh. 

He yelps, jolting more in shock than pain, and reflexively reaches to soothe the bright, angry strip of exposed skin. Abramovic snatches his wrist before it gets there, twisting it back up and into the small of his back with a bruising grip. 

Tim watches the three men on the other side of the room slowly unfurl from their stiff postures, backing down from the bait as that knife shifts and flashes in the low light again. 

Abramovic laughs then, sharp and bleating. "I really don't appreciate when someone tries to extort me, Wayne. One businessman to another, you must be able to sympathize? If not for your delightful kitten here, I might have ended this meeting sooner and more rudely than I have. But my mother taught me to say my pleases and thank yous; so please, sit down, and let me thank you properly for this wonderful _gift_." 

Bruce folds back down onto the lounge with a distinct terseness that doesn't go unnoticed by Tim. He can't bring himself to look at his mentor directly, so he settles his gaze down near Bruce's shins, and lets himself be tugged deeper into Abramovic's lap. 

All he can think about is how disappointed Bruce is going to be with him. At how Tim’d shoved his way into this investigation with confidence and callousness, and assured him that he could _handle_ this, no problem. Demanded all of Bruce's faith and trust, and now… Now he's got nothing to show for it. Now he's compromised _Bruce_ by association, put him in this situation all because he was over-eager to prove himself capable of leading, of succeeding. 

Abramovic sighs once Bruce is settled, the sound simultaneously amused and disappointed. His hand breaks from Tim's wrist, but he shifts to pin it between their bulks in the next second, and that knife is still irritatingly, infuriatingly steady against the thud of Tim's pulse, so Tim lets him. 

Then there's fingers, brushing up under Tim's hairline, and he shudders, flinching. Bruce coils - they all do - but doesn't approach. His piercing blue gaze is flitting all over Tim and Abramovic, searching for a gap in their armour that he can exploit, and Tim shrinks under that glower. 

"Say," Abramovic sings loudly, drawing a scowl from Jason, "how about I unwrap my gift here? Then I can thank you in person." 

Bruce looks like he could snap Abramovic's neck with the force of his glare. Tim lifts his gaze high enough to meet that glower and shake his head minutely. Bruce doesn't unwind, but he doesn't do anything rash either. 

Abramovic's nails catch on the knot of material at the back of Tim's neck, freeing it efficiently as Tim's stomach twists and rolls. One of the straps falls free of his shoulder, baring the expanse of skin, and Tim feels his throat tighten in trepidation, stiff beneath the trafficker's unharried ministrations. 

"Just look at him," Abramovic gasps mockingly, and Tim can hear the leer in his tone. The knife turns, scraping against Tim's skin, and he whines sharply before he can curb it, lurching upwards in an attempt to avoid the blade. The hand at the back of Tim's neck becomes firm, pinning him down in that lap as Abramovic snags the garter strap with the sharp of the knife. "Speaking of unwrapping, I think we can lose these." 

Tim jolts forwards when the strap gives way, shoulders hunching beneath the firm hand at the back of his neck. The stocking slips down his thigh an inch or so, and Tim desperately wishes he could be allowed to close his legs. It's so much more _intimate_ with the knife there. He'd honestly prefer it against his throat. At least then he wouldn't have to see everyone's attention drawn down to the cradle of his hips. 

Abramovic's stare hasn't lifted from Bruce, and Bruce hasn't blinked through the whole ordeal. "Oh babydoll," he purrs into the underside of Tim's jaw, teeth bared. "You're going to look absolutely debauched by the end of this." 

"What do you want," Bruce says, low and cold. It's not a question. 

Abramovic's gaze flashes when he lifts it back up to meet Bruce where he sits, radiating fury. The trafficker's tone is light and lilting when he replies, "I want to enjoy my gift, Wayne. I think I've earnt that, don't you?" 

Jason's knuckles look like they're going to split, they're so white, and Bruce doesn't look far behind. But it's Dick who speaks above them both, tone even and placating beneath its terseness. 

"We get it," he says. "You don't have to do this. Just tell us what you want and we'll give it to you." 

There's a flash of movement from the corner of Tim's eye, and he flinches instinctively to avoid it. Abramovic's hand, which had been massaging the tendons of Tim's neck, tightens sharply to hold him in place. The one braced in the crook of his thigh, the one holding the knife, snakes up to latch around his jaw a second later. Tim protests as he's yanked forward, fingers digging harshly into his cheeks and jawbone. The handle of the knife digs flat against his mandible, and he knows without looking that the blade is hovering across his temple, poised and sharp. 

Dick takes a panicked step forward, hatred flashing through his eyes, and then Abramovic answers him. 

"I've got exactly what I want, right here," he laughs, the sound grating in Tim's ear. 

Tim’s pulse is pounding against his skull, fast and frantic as that knife cants slightly, and now Tim can see the lethal point of it. 

"But I think," Abramovic says coyly, thumb dragging across Tim's lower lip. He groans and twists his hips, testing just how much movement he's got available now that knife is pressed roughly against his cheekbone. That other hand drops back down to squeeze the bones of his wrist in warning, and Tim stills reluctantly. "We want the same thing, don't we?" 

That thumb continues its trek across his lips, and Tim can feel his lipstick smearing when Abramovic drags it over his cheek. Dick's gaze flickers from Abramovic's eyes to the progress of that thumb, heat and guilt blatant, before it narrows and rises again. Tim slumps slightly deeper into Abramovic, humiliation lacing up through his chest. He must look dishevelled, hair askew and skirts hitched up around his hips. His thighs are still spread, still on display, and Tim flushes at the realisation. 

"So let's talk business," Abramovic purrs, and that knife realigns down to rest against the hitch of Tim's throat as the thumb cleans itself on a halter strap. "I'm not here to be extorted, Wayne. But I'll return your gift to you if you can give me something worth my while. Give me something I can use against you if you come after me, and you can have babydoll here back." 

Bruce glares, and there's so much to read there. Tim can see fury, cold and dark and dangerous. But there's sharp concern there too, a mild panic that only Tim knows the hallmarks of. He knows the sort of effects the cowl has on the psyche; Bruce is no fool, but he's more suited to using his fists than carefully extracting himself from situations like this. And right now, there's far too much collateral for Bruce to risk such an obvious bid for control. 

And the thought that Bruce - that Batman - could feel cornered right now, makes Tim's stomach knot painfully. 

"What do you want to know?" Bruce asks in a low tone. 

Abramovic shrugs, and Tim feels the knife scrape over his Adam's apple before it settles again. That other hand slides down an inch to knead his ass, and Tim winces. "You tell me. What _do_ I want to know? Make it worth my time, Wayne. You've used up enough of it already." 

"I can tell you anything you want to know," Bruce reasons. _Stalls_ , Tim thinks with a fission of dismay. 

The knife flicks up into the soft skin beneath Tim's jaw, biting hard enough to draw blood as Tim grunts and shoves his head back against Abramovic's shoulder. His arches up to avoid that steely bite, feeling the dress snag and slip down his chest without the restraint of the halter straps. Abramovic's arm becomes a vice around his waist, pinning him in place as Tim stills and stares at the ceiling with wide, pliant eyes. 

He can't see Bruce's expression from here - can't see Dick or Jason's either - but he can guess the sort of panicked horror he'd find there. Bruce doesn't ever really reach a point of desperation, but Tim can imagine he's swiftly approaching that precipice. Tim can feel a bead of warmth part from his jaw where the cold metal is pressed into his skin, feels when Abramovic shifts the knife _deeper_ \- 

"I'm Batman," Bruce bleats, deadpan, and it takes all of Tim's focus not to physically react to that admission. He doesn't know if Dick and Jason have been as successful. 

Everything stills for a minute, the silence unbroken but for the soft, dampened croons coming from the speaker. 

"Don't fucking play with me, Wayne," Abramovic snaps, and Tim exhales a shuddering breath through an overstretched throat. "Give me some _real_ information." 

"Big Daddy," Tim breathes into the lull, and feels Abramovic still beneath him. It's a long shot. It's the longest damn shot Tim's ever had to reach for under the duress of a knife. He licks his lips and shuffles in Abramovic's lap, grinding down as he presses his skull back against his shoulder. "What do you want, Big Daddy? You don't need me, do you? You just want _him_." 

Stoic, cloying quiet meets his statement, and Tim swallows and sinks deeper, spreading his thighs slightly. His heart beats a bruise against his ribs, but Tim fixes his gaze on the light directly above them and focuses on broadcasting his compliance to the four men watching him. 

"Come on, Big Daddy," he groans, flashing teeth in a breathless chuckle. It feels like it's bordering on manic. "I'm no good to you hurt, am I? Let me make it up to you. Please, Big Daddy." 

The knife slides down the column of his throat an inch, parting from the warmth under his chin, and Tim exhales shakily as Abramovic's lips come to brush against the corner of his jaw. 

"You got something for me, kitten?" 

Tim offers him a wavering smile, letting his eyes slip half-closed. He feels lightheaded, but he forces himself to turn, degree by degree, until he can meet that gaze with both eyes. 

"Yeah, Big Daddy, I got plenty for you.” 

Abramovic chuckles, stroking fingers along the arch of Tim’s hip. “See, Wayne? This one knows how to _give_. Think you could learn from his example.” He turns away from Bruce’s blatantly furious expression, and nips pointedly at the nape of Tim’s neck. 

Tim jolts up under the sharp pain, mewling as Abramovic pins him in place with the arm across his waist. That hand slides down his abdomen, inching along the dip of his pelvis as Tim whines and holds Abramovic’s gaze, pleading. He can feel the skirts parting beneath his fingers, feel the edge of a nail stroke against the inside of his thigh. 

“How about it, babydoll?” Abramovic murmurs into his throat as Tim glances down, that knife sinking to the arch of his collarbone. He mouths at Tim’s neck, dragging a groan from him as those fingers sure against his thigh. “Show me what you’ve got.” 

It’d be the perfect moment for a snappy one-liner. But Tim’s never been as good at them as Dick and Jason had been; he always overthinks them, overplans, or just straight up doesn’t notice the moment passing him by. And god, he’s got a real zinger on the tip of his tongue now, but he buries it behind bared teeth as he tenses, straightens, and _slams_ his forehead into Abramovic’s. 

The man reels back with a howl, fire whipping across Tim’s shoulder as he yanks the knife free, and then Tim's clamping down to trap that hand between his thighs, drawing Abramovic to a sharp halt. 

And yeah, maybe Dick would have taken the opportunity to deliver a witty punchline. Maybe Jason would have offered some great, ironic quote. But Tim just winds back, knuckles searing white across his clenched fist, and slugs the guy in the teeth. 

There’s a lot of blood when he crumples to the floor next to Tim’s heel. Some of it’s painted across Tim’s knuckles, and some of Tim’s blood is on Abramovic’s lips, but Tim’s happy to trade that in for the sight of the man curling into the carpet. He rises to his feet, pinning the knife beneath a ruby patent leather toe, and lets his smeared lips curl back in a sneer. 

Tim doesn’t even need to glance up to know the three sentries are in a worse state of disrepair, and his assumption is confirmed when Dick suddenly appears beside him, hands jumping to his waist and shoulders and neck, searing hot and concerned. Some of that warmth beneath his chin and the fire across his shoulder burns beneath Dick’s swiping fingers, and Tim realises belatedly that some of the cuts must have landed. They can’t have been too deep though, because Dick returns to fretting over Tim’s face after a moment’s inspection. 

“Holy shit, babybird,” Jason says, approaching with a dazed smirk, and Dick heaves a tight, relieved breath. The pair of them glance down at Abramovic, still drooling dazedly against carpet. “How hard did you nail him?” 

He sees Abramovic stiffen then, lips parting to snarl a retort, so Tim just cants his shoe until his heel is pressing down on the delicate bones of Abramovic’s hand. The man withers slightly, gaze snapping up to Tim. 

“Not a single word from you, _Big Daddy,_ ” he warns in a low tone, punctuating that with the curl of a languidly ruthless smile. 

“How long-?” Dick asks, gaze lingering on Tim’s thighs. He straightens his skirt and smoothes out the creases absently as he meets Dick’s stare. 

“A while,” Tim admits, and Dick pales. He offers a sheepish, condoling smile. “It’s okay, Dick, honestly. I was fine. I had it under control.” 

“I’ll say,” Jason chirps appreciatively, running a hand back through his hair. “You played that so damn cool, babybird. I had no idea.” 

“Me neither,” Dick agrees with the first tug of a grin at his lips. 

“It was a commendable performance,” Bruce offers in his gravelly tone, and Tim lets his features split in a relieved grin at the praise. 

Tim glances down the length of his stockinged leg at the man still curled into the carpet. “What are we doing with him? Are you going to arrest him?” 

“I was,” Bruce agrees mildly, his blue gaze flickering over Tim. There’s an offer in that stare, and Tim smiles slowly. 

“May I?” he asks, and Bruce steps back pliantly. 

So maybe he takes Abramovic down a little more viciously than an arrest strictly calls for. And maybe he grinds his knee into the trafficker’s kidney just a minute longer than is justified for that level of resistance. But Tim loops the zipties over his wrists neatly and professionally, and sits back on his heels to inspect his handiwork. 

“What next, babybird?” Jason croons, and Tim glances up over his shoulder at the three men. “Let’s get you out of that dress, and then we can celebrate with some chili dogs.” 

Tim looks down at what remains of his outfit, at the trim pulled down his chest, and the scuffed gleam of his polished shoes, and the ridiculous excess of skirt. He smirks, teeth flashing beneath what remains of his lipstick, meets their gazes and confesses, “Actually, I think I like the dress.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap folks! Don't forget to thank **tomato_carnage** for this magnificent fic request!  
> I've also got some half-finished nsfw art for this chapter, which I'll upload to [my Tumblr sideblog](https://meaninglessblah-writes.tumblr.com/) once I work out how to draw hands.  
>  **Edit 07/27/19:** The [art](https://meaninglessblah.tumblr.com/post/186561488881/i-couldnt-decide-which-colour-i-liked-more-so) is now up on my blog! 
> 
> If you go back and read Chapter 4, you'll probably be able to pinpoint the moment Tim realises he fucked up.  
> And see if you can spot Tim's "subtle" references to Bruce and Jason that follow.

**Author's Note:**

> We're back with another sidetracked fic!  
> This one is the brainchild of the Prodigal Tomato, you're welcome. 
> 
> Title is an (amended) Doris Day quote. 
> 
> There'll be four chapters all up, one told from each Robin's perspective, at the exact second they have their "Oh no he's hot" moment.


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